


Cendrillon

by echoelbo



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Attempted Murder, Cinderella Elements, F/F, F/M, masquerades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:55:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21816988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoelbo/pseuds/echoelbo
Summary: Princess Y'shtola is tired of her father trying to set her up with a man. Though perhaps she can find some entertainment in this party.
Relationships: Background Y'shtola Rhul/Lyse Hext, Y'shtola Rhul/Thancred Waters
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	Cendrillon

A royal ball.

Y'shtola's tail twitches in irritation. Heels and a dress were horrible enough to make her feel uncomfortable in her body, but the mask covering her eyes made her feel torn.

Her love Lyse had designed the mask. That alone would have made it precious, had it not been for Papalymo describing the initial design as "A unicorn vomiting on a piece of paper". The description had prompted arguing between the two, Y'shtola lost in the conversation and desperately trying to piece together what the mask could have possibly looked like. The design had been altered greatly by the end, she was told, by a dejected Lyse and a tired Papalymo.

A green mask, designed to look similar to a plant of sorts. From what she could tell, the two had based the color off of her eyes from when she was younger, as well as her love of natural magic. It was a touching gesture.

She wishes she could leave, though. Bodies brush against her as they hurry from one place to the next in the crowded area, and it's apparent that the castle was not meant to hold such events. She sighs and tries to focus on the flow of aether around her, but she cannot pinpoint anything solid in all the movement.

She is, essentially, trapped. 

She grits her teeth, ears pressed back against her head. Just as she's about to pick a direction and power walk into whatever poor soul is in her path, something very distinctly unlike everything else steps in front of her. 

They reach a hand out for her.

"Would you honor me with a dance, love?" the stranger asks, and oh, he sounds like an average whore of a man. 

She holds back the instinct to claw his face. 

She holds back a snappy comeback, too, in favor of focusing on the man's aether. How odd, to feel every other soul flowing around them, yet his feels more like a cracked rock in the midst of a stream, sterile and inconsistent, starting and ending and curling around itself in so many ways that it makes Y'shtola nearly sick trying to trace.

He can't use magic, Y'shtola thinks. It seems as if even the most basic spell would unwind the man if attempted.

"Love?" he asks again, and Y'shtola snaps out of her stupor. No, this man is not royalty. This man does not belong. She should leave and alert someone.

She should.

"Of course," she answers instead, grabbing his hand with pinpoint accuracy. She can sense his shock through how he tenses and pulls back slightly, but she simply grips his hand tighter.

They're gloved, she notes. Her years of studies alert her to the symbolism therein, but moreso, the practical uses. He does not belong here, no, nor will he stay long. 

She smiles. How wonderful it would be to make away from this party as well.

But they both have their roles to play. He places a hand on her hip, gently coaxing her into a dance, and she can only hope he has the grace to not crash them into any nearby couple, even if the thought amuses her greatly.

A ball to find her, the princess of Sharlayan, a suitable spouse. The endeavor was pointless from the start - no man could catch her eye, metaphorically or physically. She is already devoted to another regardless.

The stranger twirls and catches her, clearly enjoying himself, and she decides to make the most of this encounter with the strange man. She shifts her free hand to the side of his neck, claws digging just enough to draw blood.

He does not ask her name, nor does she ask his. He knows hers, and she, well, she does not care. He is but a moment, a fleeting entertainment to help her pass the time before inevitably disappointing her father once more.

He pauses their dance, grabbing her hand from his neck and pressing a kiss first to the palm, and then to the bloodied nail. "One so refined should not flirt with danger so, my love," he whispers, and she can feel him watching her, gauging.

She smiles. "My sire says much the same," she answers. She flicks his lip and brings her hand back to its resting place at his neck, "though I have the bad habit of ignoring him, it seems."

Her partner laughs. "Mayhap you should listen to him more. A father has no greater fear than losing his daughter, you know."

His tone is strangely candid and she frowns. "Is that a reality you would force upon another man?" she asks, suddenly curious about this man. 

He frowns - she can almost  _ see _ his frown, so untamed his aether is. Their dance is all but stopped, yet the movement around them continues, unabated and unknowing.

"If it means protecting mine own, then so be it. The world demands sacrifice," he whispers, hollow, and her blood sings with adrenaline as she twists to the side, grabbing a wrist with an outstretched knife (so small, how many has it claimed?) and pulls the stranger flush against her. 

"You're the only one foolish enough to attempt this," she breathes into his ear. He is still against her, tense, waiting for a better opening. Foolish, indeed. She closes her eyes. "The castle is so dull and I've need of guards."

He remains silent. "And if I try to kill you in your sleep?" he says, the dances continuing around them. 

She grins, eyes open and feral. "All the better," she answers, letting go of him. He stumbles back, putting some distance between them, uncertain. Oh, his words have no bite, only uncertainty. "And I can make sure you and your daughter are kept fed and watered."

The man snorts. "Are we plants now?" he asks, then sighs. "Ah. White magic joke, is it? I've never had a knack for conjury."

"Evidently. Is that a yes? My father is very concerned with me bringing back a man tonight, and I would rather avoid any future parties if possible."

He shrugs. "Come now, parties are useful in my line of work." He goes silent in thought for a few moments, and Y'shtola almost misses the threat of being murdered. The boredom is already setting back in. "... Thancred," he manages. 

Y'shtola smiles. "Keep things interesting, then, Thancred."

"Is that an order?" he asks, a smile tainting his voice, and she laughs. Oh, she's keeping this one around.

**Author's Note:**

> Guard: Where did these two come from?  
> Yshtola: Oh, I met him at the ball. Isn't he handsome?  
> Guard: ............. Y-You're blind, though??  
> Yshtola, deadpan: Yes, it was a joke. I'm also busy, so leave.
> 
> also "interesting" as in "those guards outside are fucking, thancred, go throw bees at them" "sure thing chief"


End file.
